


Double trouble

by FallingFaintly



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Idiots in Love, Romance, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29374881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingFaintly/pseuds/FallingFaintly
Summary: Robin and Strike are on a case, undercover double dating on Valentine's day. It's not quite the waste of time they both think it will be.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 21
Kudos: 46
Collections: Cormoran Strike Valentine’s Day 2021 Prompt Meme Fun





	Double trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [heatherbee22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heatherbee22/pseuds/heatherbee22) in the [Cormoran_Strike_Valentines_Day_2021_Prompt_Meme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Cormoran_Strike_Valentines_Day_2021_Prompt_Meme) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Robin and Strike are still in denial and go on a double date (him with a date, her with a date - Need to think of some convoluted reason they would agree to this!!) they spend the whole time with only eyes for each other, ignore/piss off their dates and maybe it all gets a bit passionate/smutty at the end?!
> 
> My note: my apologies, they just weren't ready to get overtly passionate. But it's all about the heart anyway, right?

“Oh for god’s sake, this is bloody ridiculous,” Robin snapped at Strike. They were standing in a corridor that led off from the restaurant towards the toilets. There were generic prints on the cream walls, tastefully lit, and a plush, busy carpet beneath their feet. “He doesn’t know anything and he’s the most boring man in the world.”

“Ok, but she seems more promising. She was definitely dropping hints suggesting she knows more than she’s telling. She might be a fantasist, but we should at least see the evening through,” Strike placated his partner. For all her peeved irritation, he thought Robin looked stunning in the one-shouldered black velvet dress with a twist at her bust that he thought probably had a name, but he filed under ‘pleasant distraction’.

“It’s all right for you, you’re at least talking to a fantasist. I’m talking to a plank of wood,” she grumbled, but he could tell she was psyching herself up to go back in. “Some way to spend Valentine’s Day.”

“I appreciate you choosing this over the dozens of other offers,” Strike said sarcastically, and she snorted in response. “You could always play footsie with him, liven him up. My date is so good at it she’s worked out I dress to the left.”

“Strike!” Robin exclaimed, laughing as he hoped she would. “You know footsie is her playing with your feet, right?”

“Details, details,” he said behind her as she walked out into the restaurant again and he followed a few seconds later.

They were investigating a dating agency that their client was convinced was running a scam involving fake dates who robbed legitimate lonely hearts. They really hadn’t come up with any evidence to that end, but their client was reluctant to take their advice that robbery was probably a police matter, and even less inclined to believe that it was simply an unlucky one off bad experience, and he was quite happy to pay, so that had clinched it. It being Valentine’s Day, the dating agency had bulk booked tables for a specific event for the clientele and Strike and Robin were undercover with Patrick, a skinny, ferret-faced man with the beginnings of a comb over situation, and Diane, a woman who clearly used hair straightening irons with such ferocity that her henna red-brown hair hung off her head, defeated. 

They were seated on parallel tables, diagonally across from each other, and as she sat down, Robin could see that Diane had kicked off her court shoes and was resuming her adventurous exploits up Strike’s legs with her stockinged feet. His eyebrows went up, and he flashed his eyes over to Robin, who rolled hers and suppressed a smile.

“The really worrying thing is that all crustaceans are bottom feeders, so when you eat prawns, you are basically eating the excrement of all the other sea creatures that they’ve eaten,” Patrick announced, and Robin paused her forkful of prawn cocktail halfway up. She looked over at Strike, who was repressing a laugh, and nodded his head down to her feet. She looked down too, and back up at Strike who mouthed ‘Shoes off’ and winked.

“So, boxing, yeah? You gotta be really big and strong for that, ain’t ya?” Diane was cooing, and Strike forced his attention back to her, her thin lips pursed in a slightly lascivious smile. “Do you have to wear protection?” She asked.

“Yeah, helmets,” Strike replied. “And obviously gloves.”

“Do you have to wear one of them things in your pants?” She said, her foot once again trying to settle in his crotch.

He coughed slightly. “No, that’s cricket. Wrong sport.” 

He noticed Robin was casting a disapproving glance his way, and he reached down and gently pushed the toes away from his genitals. Looking back over at Robin, he noticed she had appeared to have given up on the prawn cocktail, and was munching dejectedly on a buttered triangle of brown bread while her date held forth about the subtle differences between species of oily fish. Her eyes had glazed over. It occurred to him that he really did like her hair like that, half up, half down, enough soft tendrils to frame her graceful neck, but away from her face enough to see her grey-blue eyes clearly.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, the dating game passes the time, but I like that this agency has a bit more of an edge, know what I mean?” Diane was waxing lyrical.

“Not sure, how d’you mean?” Strike asked her, his attention drawn back to the brassy woman in front of him by that nagging intuition that she was desperate to share a juicy secret, but just needed some coaxing.

“All I’m saying is,” she said, lowering her voice, “that if you’re on the books long enough, it becomes a bit more… lucrative, if you get me.”

Strike leaned forward, saying nothing, hoping his body language expressed enough interest.

Robin noticed him beginning to focus on his date, and she swallowed the bread, as the waiter returned to take their starters. She hoped the main course wouldn’t be too long, and that it wouldn’t elicit any more food horror stories. She was hungry and bored.

“Right, call of nature,” Patrick stood up and stalked towards the toilets, without waiting for a response from Robin. He hadn’t seemed to need a response from her all evening, seemingly as happy to share his pontifications with a blank stare as with an engaged and interested face.

She tossed her napkin down in irritation, and put her elbows on the table, propping her chin in her hands. Strike had leaned in to the woman with extremely flat hair, and Robin sighed. Two rubbish Valentine’s Days with Strike in a row. It wasn’t like she was especially attached to the event, but she was beginning to feel fate was taking the piss.

Looking back at him, she saw he’d lost interest in whatever his date was sharing, and he was looking back at Robin. She gave him a wan smile. He did look nice in his suit. She wondered if he’d ever get another one. The black shirt, with the collar button open, was an especially good looking touch, she thought. She realized they had been looking at each other wordlessly for quite a few minutes when she saw Patrick returning to the table.

The mains arrived, and thankfully, Patrick seemed quite intent on hoovering down his steak and chips. Unfortunately, he managed it quicker than Robin managed to finish her chicken, and so she was indulged with a treatise on the evils of chlorinated chicken.

Exasperated, she put her cutlery down rather firmly on her plate, the clatter drawing several pairs of eyes, including Strike’s. 

“Excuse me,” she said to Patrick, pushing her seat back and making for the toilets. She stood in front of the mirror in there for a moment, collecting herself. This was an entirely pointless waste of time. She knew it, Strike knew it. Realizing the toilet visit had done nothing to ease her annoyance, she resolved to return to the table and at least finish the bottle of wine.

As she came out into the corridor, she saw Strike leaning on the wall opposite. He had his hands in his pockets, his jacket open, and his head was bent forward, his mouth pouting thoughtfully. He looked up at the sound of the door clipping shut behind her, and he smiled, the crinkles around his eyes making something flip involuntarily in her stomach.

“You ok?” He asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, snapping her clutch closed.

“Only you left the table..”

“Because I couldn’t stand another minute hearing about how my dinner is literally made of shit and bleach,” she said crossly, and Strike laughed.

“He’s that bad, huh?”

“Yes. But I suppose I should be grateful he’s not tried to stick his foot in my pants,” she managed in return.

“Yeah, she’s… keen,” Strike admitted.

“Well, you’re used to that, I suppose,” Robin replied. Strike cocked his head to one side and raised those normally grouchy eyebrows again, amused.

“What does that mean?” He asked.

“You are not unused to batting away female attention, Strike. Don’t fish.” 

He pushed himself away from the wall with a grin.

“What would be the purpose of fishing for compliments from the gorgeous woman on a date with another man, when I’ve got the full attention of Diane the sneaky escort who will give me all the compliments I want, and anything else for that matter, for the right price?” Strike had leaned in to share this particular tidbit, and for a second Robin didn’t register what he’d said. She was a little too distracted by his proximity, his usual brushed up scent of an undertone of cigarettes and the note of lavender, and the copious chest hair that was visible under his unbuttoned collar. A second later she caught up.

“Wait. She’s an escort?” Robin blinked.

“Yeah,” Strike nodded, and Robin was gratified that he hadn’t stepped back. 

“But…”

“Apparently there’s a little side business for the agency. When you’ve been on the books a long time, they selectively and discreetly offer you the option of being your pimp. Classy stuff,” he continued. He watched her process the information, close enough to catch the familiar smell of Narciso, something he associated wholly with Robin now, and it connected him with memories of a not-date-date at The Ritz, endless nights working late, and even the feeling he got when he came into the office and saw her coat and scarf hanging up and felt happy she was there. She wrinkled her nose up.

“Oh that’s nasty,” she said. “But it’s not a thieving racket, is it?”

“Nope,” Strike grinned, “gives us something to give Lonely Heart, and he can do what he wants with it, but other than that, I think we’re done.”

“So I don’t have to go back in and listen to Patrick anymore?” She asked.

“You weren’t really  _ listening  _ to him…”

“Oh shut up,“ Robin laughed, “can we go?”

“Well, it’s still only,” he checked his watch, “just past eight o’clock. You can go home if you want, but we’re all dressed up and I thought you might fancy staying out past your bedtime.”

Robin looked at him, and he slipped his hands back in his pockets, looking quite smug about the offer he’d just made her. She narrowed her eyes, a smile playing round her lips.

“Oh, all right!” she said after a minute, and his grin grew broader. “Oh bugger! I left my coat on my chair.”

Strike shrugged, and offered her his crooked elbow for her to take.

“Let’s not forget it then,” he said.

Robin slipped her hand through his arm and they walked into the restaurant together, straight over to the table, where Patrick sat, picking his teeth.

“Sorry, just need to get my coat,” Robin said, taking the black satin trench from the back of the chair.

“What’s going on?” Patrick said, indignant. He looked up at Strike, and shrank visibly down at the sight of his bulk.

“Oh, sorry, I’m leaving. Thanks for the pointers about food provenance. It’s been educational,” Robin said, and Patrick flapped his mouth open and closed, a bit like the fish he was so tediously knowledgeable about. Patrick looked up at Strike again, a little more boldly this time. Strike clicked his tongue as he reached inside his suit jacket for his wallet. 

“Bad luck, mate!” He said, by way of commiseration, and turned to Diane at the table behind him, pulling out three twenties and putting them on the table in front of her. “Not what you might normally make, but it’ll cover dinner. Thanks for the foot massage.”

Patrick was now spluttering, and pushed his chair back, pulling himself up to his full height, which was still only up to Strike’s chest.

“This is  _ my _ date!” he insisted.

“What can I say, pal? She was just bowled over by my irresistible sexual magnetism.”

“I… I.. this is outrageous!” Patrick exclaimed, his thin face flushed red, even as Strike remained implacably amused.

Robin read the cue to slip her hand round Strike’s arm again, squeezing his bicep as she did so.

“Patrick, when you know, you know. You know?” she said sweetly, and with that, the detectives made their way to the exit. Patrick sank down into his chair again. He looked over at Diane, who had picked up the money and was slipping it into her bra, and she winked at him.

Once out in the cool February evening, both incredibly relieved and laughing simply because of that, Strike and Robin stopped for a moment. Robin looked up into the clear sky, pinpricks of stars just about visible through the haze of artificial light from the city. Strike reached into his pocket, pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. He craned his neck back, joining Robin in the impromptu stargaze.

“Valentine’s day is such a load of shit,” she said, after a minute of comfortable quiet.

“Yup,” Strike agreed, but he was certainly happier on this night than he’d felt on most of the previous February fourteenths he’d lived through.

“I mean, what’s so hard about just being with someone like the rest of the year. Why make such a stupid fuss over one day in February?” Robin added.

“All the Christmas chocolate has run out and you need to restock?” Strike suggested mildly, and she grinned, looking over at him.

“Trust you!”

“Or maybe people sometimes need an excuse to say things they just assume someone knows already,” Strike said, still looking up. 

“Maybe. Or maybe just show them without having to say anything,” Robin offered, resuming her gaze towards the sky. Strike smoked a little more, thoughtfully, enjoying the sudden reflective moment with Robin standing comfortably close to his left arm. He wasn’t sure he didn’t imagine the brush of her hand against the back of his, and he was disinclined to break the mood by looking down to check. He flexed his hand instead, and her hand was indeed there and he heard the smallest of in-breaths from her in response. His heart was suddenly thumping as he unmistakably felt the backs of her fingers slot ever so slightly between the backs of his. He was holding his breath now, still looking upwards, but not really registering the few visible scattered stars, his whole consciousness suddenly entirely in his left hand, hanging in an agonizingly sweet moment of wanting more but also wanting this light touch to never end. He shifted his hand slightly, curling his index finger around hers, and to his aching heart’s delight, she slipped her whole hand around his.

“It’s just one day, though,” Robin said, finally, neither of them looking away from the sky yet.

“Yeah, one day seems inadequate,” Strike replied.

“I think you can show someone how you feel any day of the year,” Robin said, and Strike felt the shift as she turned her head. He looked away from the heavens, and their eyes met. There was nothing new in her face, he knew. Even her hand was telling him something he felt in his gut already.

“You can,” he replied. “And you really should.”

He squeezed her hand lightly, his thumb running over the backs of her fingers. She looked down, and back up at the stars, and he saw the way her face had glowed with pleasure. He grinned to himself, nodded slightly, and still holding her hand and taking her with him, he walked down the little cultivated forecourt at the front of the restaurant.

“Come on, Ellacott,” he said. “You’ve got a date.”


End file.
